


Wolf's Blood

by EmmaFoxglove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaFoxglove/pseuds/EmmaFoxglove
Summary: Sansa remained still as he came toward her. She would not cry this time. She had wolf’s blood. She would not cry.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 219





	Wolf's Blood

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Sandor stays in King's Landing after the Battle of the Black Water only to be married to Sansa Stark on a whim of King Joffrey. Potentially a one shot, though there are plans to add more in the future. Sansa's aged up, somewhere in her mid-teens.

Sansa willed herself not to cry. She needed to be a lady tonight, someone brave enough and strong enough to do her duty. 

But when the hulking figure beside her let out a savage roar and hurled one of the wooden chairs against the wall, she had to press her hand against her face to hold back her sobs. 

Sandor Clegane was breathing heavily, his chest heaving beneath his rumpled leather jerkin. The low firelight reflected off his scars. Rage and the sour smell of wine drifted off him, making Sansa want to run and hide. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and she hiccupped uncontrollably as she failed to quiet her crying. 

He whirled at the sound, a huge, dark shape framed by the orange flames behind him. She took an involuntary step back as he strode across the room but he caught her by the arm. It took every courtesy in her not to jerk away from him, and she cringed as his big, hard fingers bit into her skin. 

“Please, stop,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

“You’ll hurt worse than this before we’re done here,” he snarled. “What’s the matter, girl, your little courtesies don’t extend to the marriage bed? Didn’t your septa ever tell you about what happens between a man and a woman?” 

Sansa tried to pry off his hand, her last traces of politeness vanishing. “Let go of me,” she cried, beating at his hand, his arm, his chest, any part of him that was within reach. 

The Hound caught her other hand in his, barely seeming to notice her efforts to free herself. And yet his hold was looser than it had been a moment ago, still too strong to break away from, but no longer causing her pain. 

“The little bird has some spirit after all, does she?” He laughed at her, voice harsh as steel on stone. “Too bad she didn’t use it earlier. Then she might not be in this mess.”

Sansa slowed her useless struggling, the sudden anger leaving her as swiftly as it had come. A crushing sense of hopelessness replaced it. She felt herself go limp, all the pain and humiliation and sorrow making her body cave in like a roof beneath too much snow. She started to cry again, in too much pain to care what he thought of her. The hands that had been restraining her just moments before now became her only support. 

“Little bird?” he asked, a new tone in his voice. Suspicion, as if this were some kind of trick she was playing. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, covering her face with her hands. She wasn’t, but it seemed like the right thing to say. “I just . . .” she hiccupped again, her breathing coming in too-short gasps, like a fish pulled out of water. She couldn’t get enough air. “I just . . . I just . . . I just want . . .” Not enough air. The edges of her vision were getting hazy and dark. She was looking at his chest, watching as the seams of his jerkin began to blur. She suddenly felt horribly sick. 

"Gods," he said, catching her as she began to slump to the ground. He scooped her up and carried her to the bed. 

The world swam before her eyes. Her face felt like it was on fire. She lay on her side, gasping for air, blinking at the fire in the grate. It was too hot in here. Too hot. She wanted her mother. 

She heard movement from the other side of the room. Footsteps. Sloshing liquid. A thud. More footsteps. 

"Here, girl."

She slowly turned her head away from the fire, looking up at the man who stood over her, casting her in shadow. He sank down on the bed next to her and held something out. A cup. 

"Drink," he ordered. He had to help her sit up, his hand around her shoulders gentler than she'd expected. She took a sip from the cup, expecting it to be wine. She was pleasantly surprised to find it was only water, blessedly cool against her lips. She drained the cup and sank back onto the bed. The world was a little more stable now, but she still felt light headed. 

"Thank you," she murmured. 

He snorted. "Never took you for a fainter." 

She didn't answer. She just looked into the fire, watching it crackle and spit in the hearth. She wasn't thinking about anything, her mind blessedly quiet. 

"Get some rest, little bird," he said gruffly, rising from the bed. "You've had a long day." He walked across the room, toward a table in the corner. There were a couple pitchers there and he poured himself a cup of wine. 

As she drifted off to sleep, she was thinking of how dark the Dornish red looked in the half lit room. Almost black, like liquid shadows.

The next thing Sansa knew, she was looking up at the dark wooden beams holding up the ceiling. She was lying in bed, a wool blanket drawn up to her chin. 

“She’s alive, then,” a harsh voice said from somewhere to her right. 

She turned to look at him. 

The Hound sat hunched over the small table, nursing his cup of wine. He glared at her over the rim, his eyes catching the firelight like a dog’s. 

Sansa watched him, her mind reluctantly reviewing the circumstances that had brought her to Sandor Clegane’s bedchamber. The new dress that had been brought in for her, the mockery of a wedding before the crowd of nobles, the poor, last minute wedding feast and, finally, the bedding ceremony where a dozen clutching, pinching hands had pulled off all but her small-clothes. And then she hadn't been able to breathe.

He saw her perplexed expression and scowled, his burnt face turning even uglier. “Don’t worry, girl,” he spat. “You’re pretty little maidenhead is still intact. I prefer my lovers to be awake.”

She blinked at him. He was still in a foul mood, that was obvious enough, but it seemed no worse than his usual behavior. At least he wasn't throwing chairs any more. She sat up in bed, pulling the blanket up to cover herself. "Thank you for catching me when I fell, ser," she said, regaining some of her lost courtesy, drawing it up around her like the poor protection it was.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” He rose to his feet, casting a long shadow across the rushes. 

Sansa remained still as he came toward her. She would not cry this time. She had wolf’s blood. She would not cry. 

The Hound came to stand beside the bed, hands on his hips, looking down at her. Sansa made herself look up at him in return, carefully keeping her mind quiet. It did no good to think about what was about to happen. It would be best just to get it over with. 

He didn't speak, his face an expressionless mask. Finally, he reached down and took the corner of the blanket between his fingers and pulled it back, revealing her nakedness. Sansa resisted the urge to snag the blanket back over herself, instead forcing her hands to remain at her sides, a deep blush spreading across her cheekbones as she felt his gaze drift along her body from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. As the seconds crawled by, Sansa felt her panic returning. She chewed her lip and wiggled her fingers and toes, cursing him for his silence. She wondered if he was disappointed by what he saw; if he thought she was ugly. She hoped so. It seemed like a form of vengeance if he had to consummate his marriage with an ugly woman. 

“I didn’t know about it, you know,” he said at last, raising his eyes to hers. 

She frowned. 

“The wedding. Joff just told me to be at Baelor’s this morning and to wear something decent. I didn’t know what he was planning.” He snorted a laugh, but his expression was not amused. His gray eyes burned with a kind of hate that frightened her. “Move over, girl. You’re taking up the whole bed.” 

Sansa did as she was told, scooting over until her arm touched the wall. She laid back down. Meanwhile, the Hound banked up the fire until the room was nearly black. Sansa squeezed her eyes tightly and tried to make her thoughts go quiet as she heard him cross the floorboards. She listened to the soft rustling as he pulled off his clothes. The bed creaked as he climbed into it. 

For several moments neither of them moved, the silence stretching out endlessly. She was the one who broke it. 

“My lord?” she asked, knowing how he hated that title, yet not knowing what else to call him. It wasn’t in her to call him ‘dog’ the way others did. 

He grunted in response, evidently annoyed but not calling her out on it. 

“Aren’t we . . .” she trailed off, her courage failing her. Though she had little desire to consummate their union, she also knew that it was expected of them. His silences were beginning to confuse her. 

“You want to fuck, my lady?” he asked. She could hear the sneer in his voice. 

Sansa flushed and didn’t reply. The bed jostled as he turned to look at her. She felt his hand on her hip, and he tugged her closer until she was pressed against him, her shoulder to his chest, her waist to his stomach, her leg brushing against his. His skin was hot and covered with hair. 

“I wouldn’t mind it myself,” he growled into her ear, making her shudder. His hand followed the dip of her waist upward until she felt him touch her breast. “But I don’t think you’d enjoy it all that much.”

Sansa didn’t trust herself to say anything for a moment, feeling the weight of his hand on her breast. His thumb slowly ran back and forth across the underside of it. It made her feel strange. “But, won’t the king be expecting us to—ah!” he’d caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinched hard, though it was more surprising than painful.

“The king?” he snarled. “The king who just forced you to wed while those fools laughed? The king who chopped of your father’s head and made you look at it? The king who is trying to kill the rest of your family? Aye, I’m sure he’ll be expecting us to consummate this little marriage. He probably thinks that I’m half-killing you right now, making you bleed like a stuck pig.” He pinched her nipple again, making her gasp. “The king can go bugger himself. If I’m going to take you, I’ll do it in my own good time. But if you’re really that desperate for it,” here his voice turned scathing, mocking her again. “I’ll give you a taste of something Joff never intended for you.”

Before she could think about what he meant, she felt his hand skim downward, over her bare stomach to rest on top of her smallclothes. She yelped as she felt him down there, in her most personal place, but within moments her alarm faded into nothing, and she melted against the fingers that gently swirled over her womanhood. Her breathing turned ragged and she had to bite back the unladylike sounds that threatened to burst from her. Her hips tentatively ground up into his hand. 

“You like that?” he asked. He sounded startled. He began rubbing her a little faster. 

Sansa was too embarrassed to answer. But then he withdrew his fingers and her eyes widened. “What are you doing?” she asked. 

Sandor Clegane grunted. “You don’t have to pretend for me, girl. You aren’t very good at it.”

“But I wasn’t pretending. Really. Please, ser—”

“I’m not a knight,” he snapped, but the fingers came back and Sansa whimpered, tossing her arm across her eyes, lost in sensation. Her mind whirled with all kinds of scandalous ideas. Like how if his fingers felt this nice, what must his actual . . . 

She cried out as the thought of Sandor Clegane’s manhood rubbing against her made a million white flower petals burst behind her eyelids. Her back arched off the bed and her hips bucked into his hand, desperate to make it last. Sandor swore and pressed his fingers harder against her until the sensation finally faded and she had to tell him enough, no more or she’d die. Sinking back down onto the mattress, Sansa rested against him, feeling all of her muscles go limp. 

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then she felt him touch her cheek, surprisingly gentle, his fingers smelling like her sex. "Get some rest, little bird," he said again. Then he turned away from her. 

Her limbs were heavy, and her eyelids began to droop. They weren’t touching any more, but she could feel his warmth beneath the blankets. She looked over at him, only able to discern the shadowy outline of his broad back. He was so large, he seemed to fill up the whole bed, lying between her and the door as good as any guard dog keeping intruders at bay. She smiled a little, and curled up on her side, feeling safe for the first time since her lord father had died.


End file.
